Through the Mist
by Mayle
Summary: John comes home one day to find Sherlock high. He's surprised, shocked, and angry. What will come from Sherlock's high babblings? (Warning: This story contains drug use and self-harm)
1. Chapter 1

John slumped in the seat of the cab, dreading the moment he'd reach 221b and have to deal with Sherlock. There had been some serious problems and absent workers at the clinic which had led to John staying way later than normal. Once he'd finally got out of there, he'd opened his phone to see thirteen missed calls and twenty-four unread text messages. John's frown deepened as he read through them.

_John, where are you? –SH_

_ John, you should be home by now. –SH_

_ John, I didn't ask for anything. So you're not at the store. Why aren't you here? –SH_

_ John! Answer me this instant! –SH_

_ John, I will call Mycroft, if I have to. –SH_

_ What happened?_

_ Why aren't you answering?_

_ Are you mad?_

_ I cleaned up the mess, so come home._

_ JOHN! COME HOME NOW!_

_ Goddammit John! Where the hell are you?_

_ I cleaned the whole flat, there are no body parts._

_ Will you come home now?_

_ I'll fix you a cuppa. _

_ John? Why won't you answer me?!_

_ John! My patience is wearing thin!_

_ John Hamish Watson! I will call your mother!_

_ John, are you ok?_

_ I'm sorry for the yelling. _

_ Please John…I'm really sorry. Please come home…_

_ I hate you! How dare make me feel like this?!_

_ I'm sorry! Whatever it is I'm sorry! Please come home!_

_ Ok…fine. I get it. I'lk just talk ti mydelg._

John scowled at the phone. Something wasn't right: Sherlock never misspelled anything. The cabbie barked at him from the front and he jumped out of the car. He threw some money in the window and ran up to the door. He unlocked it and sprinted up the stairs. He saw Sherlock's spidery hands flailing about over the couch. He strode over and knelt by the gangly detective. Sherlock turned to him and grinned.

"You must be Drug John!" he said brightly, "I'm so glad to see you!"

"What? No, Sherlock-," John paused, trying to wrap his head around the sight of the strung-out detective, "What the hell did you take?"

He pulled up the sleeves of Sherlock's dressing gown and found no new track marks. He frowned deeply and grabbed ahold of Sherlock's face. Sherlock beamed at him.

"Are you going to kiss me?" he asked in a bright, hopeful sounding voice.

"What? No," John muttered at him, "What did you take?"

"Blah, blah! You're boring!" Sherlock stuck his tongue out at John.

John rolled his eyes and noted the heated skin beneath his fingers. Sherlock's eyes were wide and his pupils were radically dilated. He pressed his fingers to the pulse in Sherlock's wrist. He lost track of the rapid beats and gave up. He looked back up at Sherlock's face, which was broken into a wide grin.

"I have a secret, Drug John," Sherlock whispered, "You cannot tell anyone though."

"Uh, ok," John answered cautiously as he tried to figure out what the hell Sherlock was on.

"Caterpillars don't have bones!" Sherlock whisper shouted at him.

John raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly realizing what he was on.

"Really Sherlock?" John growled at him, "Coricidin? What are you, fifteen?"

"It was available," Sherlock said innocently (though we all know that he is entirely not innocent).

"Sherlock, dammit, why did you do this?" John demanded.

"John-the real John-didn't come home," Sherlock answered his eyes wide, "He's mad at me. I don't know why. It's probably because-What was that?"

Sherlock suddenly sat up on his elbows and looked around. He squinted around the flat, apparently seeing nothing. John sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock settled back down, apparently satisfied that nothing was there. John looked at him expectantly.

"What?" Sherlock questioned, "Oh! Right, I was saying…he's mad and he hates me. But I really love him. He's my only friend. Will you be my friend now instead?"

"Sherlock it's me," John said, "I'm not a hallucination. It's really me."

Sherlock giggled and waved a hand in front of John's face.

"That is so weird," Sherlock whispered.

John rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Come on, Sherlock," he muttered, "We're going to go to the hospital."

"Nooo! I can't go!" Sherlock waved his hands frantically, "They'll send me to jail or something!"

"Fine," John relented, "I'm calling Mycroft then."

"Ugh," Sherlock stuck his tongue out, "Mycroft is annoying. One time he stole my turtle and gave it to a pet store. What kind of jerk does that?"

"Apparently, a Holmes kind of jerk," John answered, pulling out his phone and scrolling through to find Mycroft's number, "You probably would've done the same to him if you were the older brother."

"Nu-uh!" Sherlock protested, "I don't steal people's pets! That's just mean!"

John rolled his eyes as he finally found Mycroft's name and hit the dial button. It was only a single ring before Mycroft answered.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," Mycroft's cool voice drifted through the phone, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your brother is on drugs," John said bluntly, "Come and get him and have his stomach pumped."

"No!" Sherlock shouted, "I hate that snake machine!"

"I see," Mycroft's voice seemed strained, "Why didn't you take him to the hospital?"

"He doesn't want to go," John answered, "I just assumed you'd have some proper resources to help out. It's only Coricidin, so I saw no reason to get too hyped up about it."

"Any drug is reason to get hyped up," Mycroft answered coldly, "Especially when it comes to my brother."

"Tell him I hate him, Drug John!" Sherlock shouted.

"Why did he call you that?" Mycroft demanded.

"He thinks I'm a hallucination," John answered, tiredly, "Please come and get us."

"I'll send a car," Mycroft said curtly.

There was a click and John sighed as he stowed his phone back in his pocket. He turned back to Sherlock, who had turned to face the back of the couch and was running his hands across the cushion. John resisted the urge to start crying and punch Sherlock in the face. Instead he sat on the coffee table and watched Sherlock as he waited for Mycroft.

* * *

**Little note: Hi readers! I just wanted to say that I've never actually taken Coriciden (AKA Triple C's). All the information I got about it was from someone who HAS taken it, though. So it is as accurate as I could make it. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stiffened suddenly on the couch, his hands frozen against the back.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"Shhh!" Sherlock hissed at him.

So John shushed and waited for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock turned around to face him.

"You're real," he whispered.

"Yes," John confirmed.

Sherlock shot up to a sitting position and paused, his eyes wide. He wobbled for a bit then turned back to John.

"Why are you mad?" he questioned earnestly, "I'm very sorry for it. Whatever it is that I did, I'm really sorry about it. Really, really, really and truly I am. I am."

"I'm not mad, Sherlock," John answered tiredly, "Some things happened and I got held up at the clinic."

"Why didn't you tell me that?" Sherlock demanded, "I thought you were never coming back! I thought you left like everyone else! I thought you hated me!"

"I was tied up, Sherlock," John said gently, "I couldn't text you or call, because something really big happened."

Sherlock's face screwed up and then he let out a wail before burying his face in his hands. John leaned forward and pulled Sherlock into him. He sighed heavily, stroking the other man's hair.

"It's ok, Sherlock," John whispered, "I'm here. I'm never going to leave."

The younger man shuddered in his arms, burying his face into John's shoulder. John heard Sherlock giggle and sob and then giggle again. He tried to ignore it, but Sherlock kept going back and forth between giggling and sobbing. He looked toward the door, willing someone to come through it and save him from this embarrassment. His heart ached for Sherlock, but it didn't make any easier for him to deal with a drugged Sherlock. Finally, after a few moments that felt like years, Mycroft appeared in the doorway. He raised his eyebrow at the two men and came forward.

"Is he alright?" Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock's head snapped up, hitting John's jaw. He glared at his older brother.

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted at him, "This is my John! You have to go get your own! No more stealing from me!"

"Sherlock, I only stole from you once," Mycroft answered tightly, "And you know that."

"Liar!" Sherlock yelled at him, "You took Lestrade! He was supposed to be my friend, but you took him! And my turtle! And my razors! And you took Arthur! You took him! You stole him away! Well, you can't have John! I love him too much to let you have him!"

John felt his cheeks heat slightly at that comment. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, hugging him close to his skinny chest. John looked up at Mycroft, sheepishly and shrugged slightly.

"He's mine!" Sherlock cried out, his voice breaking.

"Come on, Sherlock," John muttered, "Mycroft doesn't want me. He wants to help you, ok? So let's go, ok?"

"Ok, John," Sherlock answered.

He stood up to obediently leave the flat, but as he took a step, he shrieked and turned, grabbing a hold of John.

"The floor is gone!" Sherlock shouted in a panicked voice.

John sighed heavily and grabbed the detective close to him. He hauled the frightened mess up by his ass.

"Hold on, Sherlock," John commanded, "I've got you."

Sherlock's arms slid around John's neck and his legs wrapped around John's waist. John pressed his hands into the small of Sherlock's back and started forward. Sherlock was incredibly light, which didn't come as much of a surprise to him. At the curb was a black car, as per the usual from Mycroft. Someone opened the door and John practically threw Sherlock into the car.

"The car will take you to a safe place," Mycroft's voice came from somewhere behind John, "There's a doctor there that knows Sherlock. He'll pump his stomach. Then Sherlock will probably sleep for several hours. You will stay with him. Inform your coworkers that you will not be able to come into work for at least a week. I will have some acquaintances of mine go over to take your place at the clinic. Do not leave his side, Dr. Watson."

John felt like snapping at Mycroft that he wasn't Sherlock's babysitter, but he knew that Sherlock needed him. John turned to Mycroft and stood to attention. He didn't salute the other man, but instead he nodded. Mycroft nodded back. John then slid into the car beside Sherlock, who had pulled his feet up on the seat. The door slammed closed and the car started driving. John tried to keep Sherlock calm as the car raced to the safe place Mycroft had spoken about.

* * *

**Little note: Hi dearies. Sorry that this chapter is short, but my muse shouted at me that this is where I should end this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it! Love you all for your support!**


	3. Chapter 3

John stared in wonder at the large house the car pulled up to. It was bit into the country, away from bustling people and prying eyes. John's mouth gaped open as he climbed out of the car. The house was huge and white, like the ones in old Victorian movies. He turned and pulled Sherlock out of the car. Sherlock fell into the gravel driveway.

"My legs don't work anymore," Sherlock informed John from the ground, "You have to carry me all the time now."

John sighed heavily and lifted the other man up and carried him bridal style up to the door.

"Knock the door, Sherlock," John commanded.

"Yes, Captain!" Sherlock said in a serious voice, he snapped off a salute and pounded his hand against the door.

John rolled his eyes and waited for the door to open. Sherlock giggled into John's ear.

"Do you like when I call you Captain?" he whispered in a low voice.

John blushed and refused to answer the question. He prayed someone would open the door before Sherlock embarrassed him any further. It seemed that whoever was in the house wanted to see John suffer, as the door did not open.

"I bet you like to give me orders," Sherlock whispered in his ear, "You like telling me what to do, huh? Knock on the door, answer the phone, buy the milk, clean up the table, take off your clothes, bend over, down on your knees, open your mouth. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

John shuddered as Sherlock's words slid seductively into his ear. He refused to address the fact that, yes, he would like that. He started counting in his head, ignoring Sherlock's drugged craziness. _It's not him, J_ohn reminded himself, _he's not in his right mind._

"Answer me, John," Sherlock commanded firmly, "Answer me now and you can order me to do whatever you want me to. You want that, don't you? You want to order me to drop to my knees and take your cock in my mouth, don't you?"

John opened his mouth to gush out "Oh god, yes!" but the door in front of him swung open. John nearly wept with relief. He walked sideways into the door and it was shut behind him. A man with messy brown hair stood in front of him. The man turned and waved for john to follow. John gratefully followed his savior down the hall and into a room.

"Come on, John," Sherlock whimpered urgently into his ear, "Answer yes! Come on!"

John blatantly ignored Sherlock, laying him on the bed in the middle of the room instead. The room was fairly normal except for a scary looking machine on a medical rolling table to the right of the bed. Sherlock's eyes were on it and he stared at in in fear. He turned to John, tears in his eyes.

"Please don't make me do this!" Sherlock cried, "Please! Please! Please, john! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for saying those things! I'm sorry! I know you're not gay, I'm sorry! I won't do it again! I'm sorry for everything! Please don't make me!"

John's heart broke at Sherlock's pleadings. He turned to the man that had led them there, assuming he was the doctor.

"Can you give him something to make him sleep?" John questioned.

"I can, but it will just make the whole process more difficult," the man said in a cold medical voice.

"Please do it," John said, biting back an angry response.

The doctor scowled and went off to get something for Sherlock. John came forward and sat on the bed. He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it.

"I'm right here, Sherlock," John assured him softly, "It'll be ok. And for the record, I'm not doing this because I'm mad. I'm doing it because I love you and want you to be back to normal."

Sherlock relaxed slightly, but held to John's hand as though it was a life preserver and he was drowning.

"I love you too, John," Sherlock whispered.

John wondered why Sherlock's "I love you" seemed so much more than just friendly, as his had been meant to be. The doctor returned, breaking him of the thoughts and quickly set to work, bustling about Sherlock. Sherlock gripped john's hand refusing to allow him to let go for even a second. As Sherlock's eyes drooped closed his urgently took john's arm and pulled him down to his face.

"What's wrong?" John whispered.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered.

Then he pressed his lips to John's. John jumped in surprise and pulled his face away to see that Sherlock was out. John watched his unconscious face for a while. Then he turned to find the doctor. The doctor hurried forward and started putting the tubes into Sherlock's pretty mouth. John had to turn away from the sight. He hated hearing the sloshy, disgusting sound of the water going into Sherlock's stomach. He shuddered, feeling bile rise up in his throat.

At least the process didn't take too long. The doctor left, wheeling the machine away with him. He paused to say that Sherlock should be fine and sleep for a while. John thanked him profusely for his help. The man stopped and looked back to John.

"You're new, aren't you?" he questioned.

"What?"

"You haven't been around the Holmes brothers very long," the doctor stated, "Few years at the most. Their sarcastic and rude demeanor hasn't quite rubbed off on you, yet."

"I guess not," John shrugged, "I wanted to think that I was rubbing off on Sherlock. But I guess I was wrong."

"A relapse doesn't mean he isn't better," the man said, "Usually it means that they're so much better they don't know what to do with themselves. Too much sentiment and happiness causes them to become uncomfortable and relapse in an effort to find something familiar. I didn't think it would happen to him. But I guess he found you. You really threw things off for him, didn't you?"

"I…I don't know," John admitted, "I didn't realize…"

"People rarely do," the doctor assured him, "Because with this type of relapse, the person is really happy. Often times because they find love. It scares them. I'd say Sherlock is the person in this world that is least familiar with happiness and love."

John didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. The doctor nodded and started back out the door. John looked back to Sherlock's unconscious face. He leaned over and brushed some of the thick curls out of his eyes. Then he flipped the lamp off and crawled into the bed with Sherlock. He would have lain on the floor, but Sherlock's hand was cemented to his. He pressed close to Sherlock and pulled the covers up to keep the sick man warm. For now, he just wanted to sleep, not think about what might be felt by who. His eyes closed and he fell asleep quickly, his face snuggled into Sherlock's chest.

* * *

**Little note: I'm hungry, tired and I really have to pee. So your ending may not be the best, but you get what you get. Love you all for all your support!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he blinked several times at the bright light streaming in the window. It took him exactly 2.65 seconds to observe that he wasn't at home and John was pressed close against him. He sifted through the foggy memories of last night. He scowled as he remembered how stupid he acted, before and during the drugs. _Coricidin…I really am stupid sometimes, _he thought miserably. He scooted away from John to go to the bathroom.

John growled in his sleep, squeezing him. Sherlock frowned and pushed away harder. John's eyelids fluttered open and then closed again as he growled and squeezed harder. Sherlock's stomach rolled like the ocean as John squeezed him. He flipped over, pushing John under him and started retching over the side of the bed. Nothing came up, as his stomach was painfully empty, but he retched anyway. His whole body was shaking and rolling with the effort. Finally, it died down and stopped and he fell down on John whose eyes were now open.

"You ok?" John whispered in his ear.

"Uuuuggghhh," Sherlock said in response.

"Sherlock, if you're ok, now, you need to get off me," John said in an urgent, but gentle voice.

Sherlock was fine, but there was no way he was getting up.

"Not ok," Sherlock mumbled.

"Wh-what's wrong then?" John asked shakily.

"Stomach," Sherlock moaned pitifully.

"If you get off, we c-can go fix that," John insisted.

"Why so urgent?" Sherlock muttered, shifting slightly.

Sherlock froze and John blushed underneath him.

"P-please get off now," John pleaded.

"Why are you aroused?" Sherlock questioned.

The man below him squirmed uncomfortably and his face grew even redder.

"I d-don't want to t-talk about this with you," John answered unevenly.

"Why not?" Sherlock turned his face to look at John, "Aren't we best friends?"

"That's exactly why not!" John shouted.

Sherlock opened his mouth to question what John meant when he was flipped over onto his back. He sat up on his elbows in a hurry, but John was already out of the room. He groaned loudly and flopped back on the bed. That jarred his stomach which just made him feel worse. He rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach and moaning in a pretty pathetic way. God, how he hated that stupid snake machine. He lay there for a bit, wallowing in pain and misery. Then someone sat on the bed next to him and nudged him.

He looked up to see John holding a bowl out to him. Sherlock lifted himself up and raised an eyebrow at him. John's face was red, but he was steady in holding the bowl out to Sherlock. Sherlock sniffed the aroma coming off the contents of the soup. _Chicken noodle soup, really? How dull, _Sherlock thought as he rolled his eyes.

"There's a reason it's given to sick people, love," John said, apparently reading his mind, "It's good for stomachs. Now eat it. I'll lift up the bed so you can lean back."

Sherlock's face tinted pink as he heard John call him "love". He tried to deduce what that meant, but his heart was pounding too hard against his chest. He took the hot bowl from John, their fingers brushing. He laid his hands, bowl and all in his lap. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't feel sick or in pain at all. In fact, he felt as fit as he ever had, as John leaned over him to press the button that lifted the bed up.

"Eat," John instructed as he settled back down, "Now."

"I'm too weak," Sherlock tried, "I need help."

John frowned at him and took the bowl back. He scooped up a spoonful of the soup and lifted it to Sherlock's mouth.

"Open," John commanded.

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock whispered, before opening his mouth wide.

John's face went beet red and his hand faltered. He sputtered out something incoherent, before dropping the spoon back in the bowl and jumping off the bed. The bowl jumped with him and the contents sloshed on his hand. He frowned down at mess and rapidly reddening spot on his hand. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Sherlock smirked, but the scowled. _What am I doing? _He demanded of himself. He paused for a moment, considering all options. _Maybe it would be beneficial to explore these "feelings". Perhaps understanding what John is feeling will be helpful in the future, _he suggested. He chose to ignore what _he _was feeling.

John returned with a fresh bowl of soup and once again offered it to Sherlock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and then opened his mouth. John hesitated, his face burning red from embarrassment. Then he sat down and shoved a spoonful of soup into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock swallowed the soup, but frowned at John.

"Not so hard," he whined.

"S-sorry," John sputtered, "Having trouble paying attention."

Sherlock smirked, proud of his being able to distract John. He opened his mouth again, prompting John to lift the spoon back to his lips. This time John tipped the spoon so the soup slid into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock almost missed John shoving the spoon in his mouth, but he didn't say anything. He simply sat still, swallowing the soup as John poured it in his mouth a spoonful at a time. It didn't take long for the bowl to empty. Sherlock scowled down at the empty bowl.

"Do you want some more?" John asked, "You look like you're mad that it's gone."

John laughed a little and shook his head.

"I've never seen you mad that food was gone," John said in an amused voice, "Usually you're glad it's gone, so you don't have to eat any more."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say he just wanted John to feed him, but he closed it back, frowning at that. John reached forward and placed his palm against Sherlock's forehead.

"Are you feeling better?" John questioned in a concerned voice.

"No," Sherlock grumbled, "I want to go home."

"Sorry, love," John sighed, "You gotta stay until you're better."

Sherlock's heart fluttered at John calling him "love" again. He hoped it would become a habit. John leaned back, taking his hand off Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock frowned at him,

"Then I'm better," Sherlock insisted, "Whatever gets me out of this stupid place."

"Places can't be stupid, Sherlock," John answered, "They're inanimate."

"Whatever," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms and looking away.

"Can you tell me you won't have another relapse?" John asked gently.

"Can you tell me you won't ever leave me?" Sherlock spat back at him.

"Yes," John said firmly.

Sherlock's head whipped around to look at John in surprise. He'd expected John to say something along the lines of "I can't promise anything." He gaped at John, who was looking away.

"Seriously?" he whispered.

"Yes, Sherlock," John said in a tired voice, "You saved me. You have no idea how much I needed you when we met. I'm not leaving you."

"Even if you get married?" Sherlock tested.

"I can't get married," John answered quietly, "No one wants me."

Sherlock wanted to scream that he wanted him, but he didn't. Instead he glared at his hands. _Stop being so stupidly sentimental, Sherlock. It's not like he actually means that. Someone will come along and grab him up. You're never going to be good enough; you're always going to annoy him. He needs someone sentimental and gushy. All you are is a cold, hard machine. So just stop this feeling nonsense! _

"Sherlock?" John's voice broke through his silent berating.

Sherlock looked up at John's wide, concerned eyes.

"What?" he breathed out with a shaky voice.

"Are you ok?" John questioned, "You look upset."

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered.

He turned away, looking at the wall. He sunk deep into his mind palace, thinking of butterflies. He was vaguely aware of John curling up on the bed next to him and going back to sleep. But absolutely he did not look down at the other man's sleeping face. And he most certainly did not lean down and kiss John on the cheek. No, that would be sentimental and…and…_he smells like soap and water. Who smells like that? So clean, John, even when you're away from home in a strange place. _He sighed at his thoughts and pressed his leg closer to John, trying to absorb the warmth of the other man. Eventually, he gave in and lowered the bed back down, wrapping himself around John.

"Good night, John," Sherlock whispered.

He kissed the ear he whispered in before settling back down on the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock kneeled on the cold, tile floor in only his pajamas. He pressed the sharp metal to his arm, hissing slightly as it slid into his skin. He pressed hard, making the metal cut deeper. Then he ripped his hand away snarling. He stared at the wound with mild curiosity. Wide and deep and red and pink. If this were a different situation, he'd have to get staples or stitches. But he wasn't going to get them. He blew a stream of air on the open cut. He shivered at the stinging it caused. He slowly lowered his arm, resting it on his leg. And that's how Mycroft found him, kneeling, bloody and broken._

Sherlock jerked awake, jarring John awake as he did so. He was shaking from head to foot at the memory. He thought he'd deleted it. He thought it was gone, but there it was, cropping back up in his dreams. His breath came out in shallow pants as he tried to clear his mind and once again delete the memory.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, "Are you ok?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted, "I'm not ok! I deleted that memory! It was gone! John! Why is it back?!"

Sherlock flipped John over and straddled his hips, gripping John's upper arms and snarling. He squeezed the arms and glared down at John, demanding an answer.

"Sherlock, calm down," John pleaded with him.

"No! Why is a deleted memory back in my mind?!" Sherlock shouted, pressing harder on John's arms.

"I-i-I don't know, Sh-Sherlock," John answered, tearfully.

Sherlock's thin fingers melded into John's skin, gripping tighter and tighter. He leaned his face in.

"You're supposed to know!" he screamed at John.

John choked and whimpered slightly.

"Y-y-you're h-hurting m-me," John whimpered.

"Well, good!" Sherlock screeched.

Then Sherlock leaned further down and bit John on the neck. It was no playful nip or sensual scraping of teeth. No, it was a bite. Like a dog or a vampire or a wild cat. Sherlock wasn't in his mind any longer, his urges and instincts were taking him over. He was furious at the doctor who was shrieking and squirming beneath him. _It's your fault! _He screamed in his mind, _you make me feel like this! _

He tasted blood in his mouth and sucked on the wound. John shuddered and struggled harder. Sherlock pulled his face up and bared his teeth at John. John's eyes widened in fear and confusion. Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back as he did so. _How very silly, you idiotic man. You think that somewhere deep down I'm good, _Sherlock thought as he flipped his head back to glare at John, _but I'm not. Nowhere in me is there good._

Sherlock grinded his hips against John, licking at the bite. John froze. Sherlock laughed again and put his teeth back in the bite mark. John choked again and Sherlock looked up to see tears running down his face. He licked them up; happy he was the one to make them. He started to devour John's lips when the door opened. Sherlock turned to glare at whoever it was that was interrupting his revenge.

"You had better get off of him, brother," Mycroft said firmly, ice dripping from his voice.

Sherlock snarled at him and refused to move. Then Lestrade came around the corner, gun pointed at Sherlock's head.

"Do as he said," Lestrade commanded, "I will shoot you."

Sherlock hissed at Lestrade and turned back to John. John looked up at him with tearful, pleading eyes. Blood dripped down from the bite in his neck. Sherlock leapt back suddenly. _Oh my god, what have I done? _He scrambled back off the bed and half crawled to the door, trying to get out of there as soon as possible. He pushed past Mycroft and Lestrade and ran down the hallway. He collapsed not too long into the fleeing, partially from weakness and partially from the sobs that threatened to take him over. He curled up and buried his face in his knees.

"Have a cigarette," Mycroft's voice insisted from his right.

Sherlock looked over to see his brother holding out the item in question, already lit. He took it with shaky hands and stuck it in his mouth. Several drags later he rested his wrist on his knee.

"What have I done?" he whispered in a hoarse voice.

"Don't worry; Dr. Watson is very resilient," Mycroft assured him.

"That's not quite the point," Sherlock snapped, "Why…why would I do such a thing?"

"I imagine you're mad at him," Mycroft supplied, "Probably because he made you fall in love with him."

Sherlock's head whipped around so fast he was sure he pulled something.

"Wha-what!" he sputtered, "D-don't be absurd!"

"Why did you take those drugs, Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock flinched at the question. Mycroft had never asked him that before.

"Because…he didn't come home," he admitted.

"Why is he so important then?" Mycroft pressed.

"Because…" Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say the despicable word, "Because he's not like everyone else."

"He's captured your heart, little brother," Mycroft insisted, "And you can't stand it. That's why you attacked him. I'd say that plus a great deal of sexual tension."

Sherlock blushed and looked down at the burning cigarette in his hand.

"Mycroft," he hesitated, "I don't know what to do."

"I'd say you should apologize first," Mycroft offered, "Then tell him you love him and explain why you did what you did. Then you can probably get through that sexual tension."

Sherlock blushed again.

"Um. Mycroft, how do i-," Sherlock started, but Mycroft slapped a hand over his mouth.

"I suggest you do not finish that sentence," Mycroft said firmly, "If you still need advice about it after you and Dr. Watson make amends, then you can ask. Before then I refuse to give you sexual advice."

Sherlock nodded his understanding and Mycroft pulled his hand away. Sherlock pressed his lips together in an effort to hold back all of the questions that filled his mind at the words "sexual tension".

"Dr. Watson needs some time," Mycroft said, as he stood up, "Lestrade has taken him out for a bit. When he gets back, I suggest you explain yourself."

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft turned to leave.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called.

His brother turned and quirked an eyebrow at him. Sherlock's mind flashed through a million images of the help that Mycroft had given him over the years. The help he refused and the help he didn't deserve. He looked down at his hands, nervous with the sudden sentiment.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"You're welcome, Sherly," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock's head snapped up at the use of the childhood nickname, but Mycroft was already several steps away. Sherlock watched as his elder brother walked away and was struck by how silly he'd been to him his whole life. He never once realized that Mycroft cared about him. Mycroft was probably the only person that cared about him besides John. He choked back the tears and scolded himself for his sentiment, but his lips turned up in a smile anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock paced around the room, unable to sit down. His hands shook in his jittery effort to stay calm. He checked the clock on the wall again. _11:32…he should be here by now. Where is he? _Sherlock's mind thought of a million things that could be happening and he didn't like any of them. He wanted John to hurry up and get home so he could apologize. However, John had apparently decided he wasn't coming home today.

"It's almost midnight!" Sherlock screeched, "He should be here! Why isn't he here? Is he really that mad…maybe he's scared. Oh my god, I'm such an idiot!"

He paced about furiously as the clock ticked behind him on the wall. Slowly, his agitation built. Pretty soon his left eye was twitching and he was pulling at his hair like a mad person. The clock behind him ticked and ticked, seemingly unaware of his crisis. He felt his chest tighten and he could hardly breathe.

"He's not coming back! He's not coming back!" he yelled shrilly at the clock.

The clock ticked on, apparently not caring if John came back or not.

"He has to come back!" Sherlock yelled at the clock, "Don't you see? I need him!"

The clock only ticked in response.

"Do you think he'll come back?!" Sherlock demanded in a high pitched voice.

The clock ticked and ticked, leaving the question unanswered.

"He said he would never leave!" Sherlock screamed at the clock, "But I did something awful!"

The clock just stared at him, ticking.

"Quit that!" Sherlock shrieked at it.

But the clock kept ticking, laughing at Sherlock.

"Stop it! It isn't funny!" Sherlock cried, pulling at his hair.

The clock kept ticking, maddeningly refusing to stop. Sherlock leapt forward and sent his fist through the clock's face. The clock kept ticking. He sent his fist through it again and again and again until the clock was in ruins and tiny shards of glass were stuck in his knuckles. He stared down at the glass in wonder. He picked out the pieces, unaware that tears streamed down his face. He sat down heavily on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, sobbing hard into them.

* * *

Mycroft watched as his little brother dissolved into tears. He desperately wanted to send Dr. Watson over there immediately, but he knew the doctor needed some time and it would just be worse if he sent him now. Mycroft considered going over to the house to comfort him, but the Holmes brothers never really did that sort of thing. He turned back to the leather-bound notebook in front of him. He scribbled down a few more words, before reading back over the paragraph. He sighed at the words.

"This is by far the most embarrassing thing I have ever done," he muttered.

The notebook was filled three-quarters of the way with all of the information in Mycroft's head pertaining to sex with a man. It wasn't exactly an extensive knowledge, but it was enough to have enjoyable experiences. It was the basics; it was what Sherlock _needed _to know. Mycroft hoped Sherlock would read through it, memorize it, and then burn it. And then never, ever speak of it again.

"I should've made Greg do this," Mycroft grumbled.

Not that Greg knew any more than Mycroft did. _Or does he? _Mycroft wondered. He hadn't really thought about that before. His face got red, thinking about whatever hidden knowledge Greg might have inside his graying head. Mycroft pushed that out of his mind and looked back through the notebook, adding notes in the margins here and there. He sighed again as he closed the notebook.

"The things I do for you, brother," he mumbled at the monitor that showed his brother.

Mycroft squinted to see what Sherlock was up to and saw that he was still curled up in a corner. But he was breathing slowly and steadily and was no longer crying. He'd finally fell asleep. Mycroft gave a half-smile out of relief.

* * *

**Little note: I know, I know! It's so short. X.x I promise I'll update soon! Love you all!**


	7. Chapter 7

"I know he didn't mean to," John slurred at Greg, "Is juss…is he gonna do it again?"

Greg gripped his arm reassuringly as he took another deep gulp out of the glass.

"He won't, mate," Greg assured him, "He was just mad. He loves you. Um, I don't think you should drink too much more."

"Whateverrrr," John shrugged Greg off, drinking deeply from the cup.

Greg sighed and pried the cup from John's hand. John scowled and reached forward to grab it back out of Greg's outstretched hand. Unfortunately, John's arms were way too short and he just ended up leaning on Greg's arm. He groaned and snuggled into Greg's arm. He dropped his own and quit struggling to get the drink back. His hand landed somewhere on Greg's leg.

"Oh god, you're a cuddly drunk," Greg groaned.

"'M not!" John insisted, snuggling closer to Greg.

"You are so!" Greg replied, "Look at you all sprawled across me like a drunken whore!"

"'M not a whore!" John said, offended but not enough to move.

"I didn't say you were," Greg sighed heavily, "Should've known this was a bad idea. Come one, you're coming home with me."

John giggled.

"Int that a bit forward?" he laughed.

Greg went beet red and looked away.

"That's not what I meant!" Greg sputtered, "You just need to go to bed."

John giggled again and lifted his hand up to Greg's chest.

"Asssking me to bed?" John questioned, slurring the words slightly.

"Oh god, you're a horny drunk too," Greg grumbled, smacking his forehead, "Let's go."

He wrapped one arm around John and hoisted him off the seat. He dragged him towards the door and struggled to flag a cab. John clung to his arm, giggling. He did his best to ignore him, but it was pretty hard when the man was so far gone that he pressed his crotch to Greg's leg.

"Stop it, John!" Greg snapped.

"Don't wanna," John groaned.

"Well, you're going to have to!" Greg insisted, "Because I don't want to have sex with you…like this. Maybe if there were other circumstances, it would be different. But you love Sherlock. And I love….i love the British Government, dammit. So quit this right now!"

John looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes and it made Greg's heart break. He wrapped his arms around John as the tears fell from his eyes. Greg petted his hair soothingly.

"It's ok, Johnny, it's ok," Greg assured him, "Once you sleep this off, you can go to Sherlock, ok? You two will work it out. Just please stop crying."

He saw a cab coming their way and quickly flailed his arm trying to get it to stop. Thankfully, it pulled to the curb and Greg quickly opened the door and backed into it, not letting go of John who clung to his shirt. He closed the door and barked the address at the cabbie. John whimpered and sobbed into his shirt as they rode to Greg's apartment.

Once they got there it was no easy feat to drag John into the apartment. Greg grunted as they struggled up the stairs. _Someone needs to lose some weight, _Greg thought as they finally made it to his door. He shakily unlocked it, trying to keep John upright. He slammed the door and locked it behind him as soon as he managed to drag the doctor into the living room.

"You live in apartment?" John said, curiously lifting his head from Greg's shoulder.

"Yeah, where you think I'd live?" Greg questioned.

"Police department," John mumbled.

Greg chuckled at that as John wobbly stood up on his own. Greg clutched his arm, just in case.

"You alright?" Greg questioned.

"'M fine," John muttered, "'M tired."

"Come on, let's go to bed, eh?" Greg offered.

"Mmok," John said, his head lazily lolling to the right.

Greg rolled his eyes and dragged John towards is bedroom. Never thought he'd be doing that. He shrugged absentmindedly and opened his door. He pulled John inside and pushed him to sit on the bed.

"Shoes off, ok?" Greg instructed.

He sat down next to John who fumbled with his laces and finally got his shoes off. Greg pulled his coat off for him and instructed him to take off his jeans. John looked up at him with a lopsided grin.

"Not like that, you dunce," Greg rolled his eyes, "Trust me on this one. Drunken sleep is so much better without jeans."

John stood shakily and Greg turned to give him some privacy as he took his jeans off. John tapped his shoulder and Greg turned back around. John was smiling proudly down at his now bare legs. Greg had to laugh loudly at the sight of John's pants.

"Red, John?" Greg laughed.

"I like 'em," John said defensively.

"Right," Greg said, his laughter dying down but a grin still on his face, "Go on to bed then."

John's head turned to look at the bed and then he turned to look back at Greg with those adorable wide eyes again.

"Will you stay with me?" John pleaded.

"Oh god," Greg buried his face in his hands, "Yes, but if you do anything sexual I will arrest you for assault on an officer."

"Mmmk," John said.

Greg looked up to see John crawling under the covers. He sighed loudly, tilting his head to look at the ceiling. Then he took off his coat, throwing it haphazardly towards the chair in his room. He hurriedly took of his shoes and jeans before he could think about how this would look if anyone walked in on them. He slipped under the covers next to John who cuddled up close to him. He considered protesting, but he figured he'd let his friend have this one. Because that's what friends do.

* * *

John woke up to warmth circling him. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to figure out what he could. _Strong arms, flat chest, must be a guy, _John thought cautiously. He opened his eyes to a black-clad chest. He blinked several times.

"Sherlock?" he questioned hopefully.

"That is the most depressing thing I've ever heard," a gruff voice chuckled above him.

"Greg?" John questioned.

"Mm-hm," Greg answered.

"Oh my god," John groaned, "What did I do to you?"

"Ah, so you're aware," Greg answered in an amused voice, "You're aware how cuddly and touchy you get?"

"Yes, I know," John answered, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have drunk so much."

As soon as he said that a headache and nausea hit him. He groaned, pressing his forehead into Greg's chest.

"I'll get you some pain stuff in a bit," Greg said, "Just don't feel like moving right now. This is very comfortable."

John groaned again, trying to remember what happened. He really didn't remember much. He hazily remembered pressing himself to Greg. He wanted to cry. He really shouldn't be allowed to drink…he pushed his probes down to his ass, which was completely not sore. He frowned.

"You let me-," John started but Greg cut him off.

"No, we didn't do anything," Greg said, "We just went to sleep. You asked me not to leave."

"Oh thank god!" John gushed, tightening his arms around Greg, "I was so afraid…"

"It's ok, Three-Continents," Greg chuckled.

John blushed at the nickname. He breathed a sigh of relief, so glad that things hadn't gotten too out of hand. He pressed his face closer to Greg's chest; half wishing it was someone else. A certain someone else he had to go talk to…

"It's funny, isn't it?" Greg said quietly, "I don't want to let go because I'm pretending you're someone else…"

"Oh, Greg, I'm sorry," John said, "We can stay like this if you want."

"Best not," Greg answered, "You have morning wood."

John leapt away, blushing and sputtering. He turned his body away from Greg, burying his face into his hands. He turned back to look at Greg who was grinning sleepily at him.

"You tosser!" John shouted, throwing the nearest pillow at him.

Greg just laughed and grabbed the pillow, hugging it to him. He closed his eyes and snuggled into it. Then he raised a hand and waved it around.

"Get out of here," he commanded, "You have a consulting detective to work things out with."

John grinned and looked around for his clothes.

"Oh, bathroom for the pain medicine," Greg added sleepily.

John rolled his eyes and hurriedly pulled on his clothes. Not bothering to tuck in his shirt or actually put on his coat. He found the bathroom and swallowed two aspirin and hurried out of the apartment. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he ran to hail a cab. His smile was because he knew it was time to tell Sherlock he loved him. And he was so glad.

* * *

**Little note: Hope ya'll liked it! I know it took me forever to write! T.T Thanks for all the support! Love you all!**


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock?" John called into the house.

He was rather breathless, having jogged up to the door and flung it open.

"John," Sherlock's deep voice called back from his left.

John looked over to see Sherlock rising from an armchair. He puffed out a sigh of relief and kicked the door closed behind him. He went forward as Sherlock came towards him. When they were about half a foot apart, Sherlock froze. His eyes widened at John and then squinted, his face becoming a scowl.

"How dare you!" he shouted, making John jump.

"How dare I what?" John sputtered in confusion.

"You went and had sex with him!" Sherlock accused, "Don't try to deny it I can smell him on you!"

"Sherlock, I didn't!" John protested.

"Look at you!" Sherlock yelled, "Hurriedly dressed, reeking of alcohol and Lestrade! Disgusting!"

"Sherlock, please, calm down," John said shakily, "Nothing happened. I just got really drunk and Greg took me home with him. Actually, he was quite the gentleman. I'm actually a really touchy, feely drunk, but he didn't let anything happen. I promise Sherlock, nothing happened. Really, nothing happened."

John took a breath, holding it in while Sherlock searched him with his eye (which sounds a whole lot nicer than it actually is). Finally Sherlock's shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit, which John only caught because he'd come to learn to read the detective much the same way as the detective read others. John let out the breath shakily and started to heave another one to go on a different rant when Sherlock interrupted him.

"I'm sorry for what I did," Sherlock said in a clear, firm voice, "Something came over me that I didn't understand. I'm very sorry."

John smiled softly at him relieved to hear the words.

"It's ok, I forgive you, you tosser," John answered brightly.

"Good," Sherlock nodded, "There, um, is something else as well."

There was a pause while Sherlock looked away from John nervously. Then he took a deep breath and turned back to John with a confident look on his face.

"I believe my chemicals and hormones have risen to a sufficient level in reaction to you."

John blinked at Sherlock and Sherlock merely blushed slightly and looked away.

"I'm sorry, what does that mean?" John questioned.

Sherlock let out a snort of frustration and his face reddened further.

"I suppose you would say, I'm in love with you," he stated, still looking away.

"Why didn't you just say that?" John asked.

"Because I am uncomfortable with those words," Sherlock muttered, "In that order."

John couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. He pushed it away and cleared his throat.

"Well, I think I should say something then," John said in a somber voice, "My chemicals and hormones have risen to a sufficient level in reaction to you, as well."

Sherlock's head jerked to look at John in surprise. John grinned widely at him.

"Oh, well, I assumed as much," Sherlock answered coolly.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Just come here and kiss me now," John commanded in a playful voice.

Sherlock once again became apprehensive. He looked away and cleared his throat.

"A different time," Sherlock answered, "I don't feel up to it now."

John tried to ignore the disappointment, but it was pretty hard considering it threatened to consume him completely. He put on a smile anyway and nodded his head for Sherlock's benefit.

"That's fine," John said, "I understand. Anyway, do you want some breakfast? Or perhaps we should go home first?"

"Mycroft should be here any minute," Sherlock answered, "He'll send us home."

"Sounds good," John said brightly, "I'm definitely ready to go home."

As if on cue, Mycroft burst through the front door and strode towards them. He nodded curtly to John and then thrust a leather bound notebook into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looked down at it and then up at Mycroft. Mycroft nodded jerkily and John could've sworn he saw the man blush. Sherlock gripped the notebook and held it to his chest. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, but he just blushed and shook his head. John started to wonder what was with all the blushing.

"Can we, er, go now?" he asked awkwardly.

"Yes, come along," Mycroft sprang into action, starting towards the still open door, "This house is to be used for other purposes so you two need to vacate."

John rolled his eyes and offered his arm to Sherlock. Sherlock frowned at him, but looped his arm through John's. He kept the book clutched tightly in his hand, by his side. John made a note to ask him about it after everything calmed down a bit. Or maybe he'd just look in it sometime when Sherlock was asleep. By the way Sherlock was clutching it and the way no one addressed the book, John figured he'd get more answers if he just took a look.

"Would you like breakfast when we get home?" John asked, pushing away thoughts of the intriguing new book as they walked out to the curb, "Or do you want to sleep?"

"I slept last night," Sherlock said, "I would like breakfast."

"How long did you sleep?" John pressed.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, visibly flinching at the words, "I broke the clock. There was only one. It was midnight when I went to sleep and full daylight when I woke up."

"I thought you had a watch," John started, "Wait, why'd you break the clock?"

"It is irrelevant," Sherlock toned.

"Don't give me that," John snapped, "Why did you break it?"

Sherlock looked at John and sighed.

"It was mocking me," Sherlock muttered.

John decided to leave it at that. He looked down at Sherlock's hands to see if they were damaged as they slid into the car Mycroft had waiting. He noted that Sherlock's right knuckles were torn up and bruised. He winced slightly and turned away, making a note in his head to bandage them.

"They aren't that bad," Sherlock stated, "I'll just wash them up."

John turned to look at him, his eyebrow raised in confusion.

"My knuckles," Sherlock said, lifting his hand up and flexing his fingers, "That's what you were thinking about. Bandaging them up and all that doctor stuff you do. They really aren't that bad, I can just wash them off and they'll be fine."

"You're so brilliant, Sherlock," John said softly.

"Oh, I, uh, wasn't meaning to be," Sherlock responded, "I just wanted you to know it's ok."

"Sherlock, I'm not mad," John said, "I'm just fawning over you and telling you that you're amazing. That's what I always do. What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, wincing again, "I just assumed…that things would be different."

"They don't have to be," John assured him, "Things can be the same as usual if you want."

"Oh," Sherlock stated simply.

He turned away from John, his eyebrows furrowing together. John sighed and looked out his own window. He was pretty sure he wouldn't hear anything from Sherlock for at least the rest of the car ride. He glanced back over and saw Sherlock's head buried in the leather notebook. Nope. Definitely not hearing from him for awhile.

* * *

**Little note: Heya dearies! Hope you liked it! Thanks for all the reviewers, especially Peaceandunity for reviewing multiple times! Thanks also for the follows and favorites! Did anyone catch the hint at Mystrade in the last chapter? Love you all!**


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn't easy getting a look at that damn book. Sherlock held it close to him constantly, as though his life depended on it. Finally, after a week, Sherlock left the book unguarded on the kitchen table as he went to take a shower. In Sherlock's defense, John was pretending to be asleep in the arm chair, which is a very low trick indeed.

John waited until the shower was running before he crept towards the book. He knew something worth knowing about was in the book and the more Sherlock hid it from him, the more he wanted to know what was in it. John carefully undid the string that was tied around the book and opened the front cover.

"Hole. E. Shit," John stated as he read the first line.

_If you are the receiver, you must remember to always keep your body relaxed._

The second line sent him sputtering and blushing.

_It is difficult for the other man to penetrate you if your muscles are tense._

John wondered briefly if this was the wrong book.

_Take deep breaths and remember that the person you are with will not hurt you._

That was true enough, but did Mycroft actually write this?

_You are responsible for telling him if you feel any discomfort, as he will probably be unable to tell._

"What the hell is this?" John wondered out loud.

"An instruction manual," Sherlock's voice answered, making John jump violently.

John whipped his head over to look at Sherlock, who had an unreadable expression on his face.

"Sorry, sorry," John sputtered, "I couldn't help it…"

"It's ok," Sherlock answered, "It will probably be beneficial for us both to read it."

"Did Mycroft write this?" John squeaked out.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

John blushed again and turned back to the book, quickly closing the cover and putting the string back around it.

"You should read it," Sherlock said firmly.

John cleared his throat.

"I'll trust you," John said, not looking at him, "And my previous experiences."

He then sprinted to grab his coat and run out of the flat before Sherlock could ask a question.

* * *

John stretched his back and yawned as he waited for the kettle to sing. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face, still horribly tired. The daylight streaming in the window didn't make him feel any better, just worse. It also didn't make him feel any better that Sherlock seemed to be out of the flat, without his coat. That just made him worry about the man catching a cold.

He sighed loudly and moved over in front of the counter. He stretched up on his tiptoes to get the sugar out of the cabinet, but Sherlock had put it up one shelf from where it usually was. He snorted in frustration as he stretched his fingers just a little further-

John jumped horribly as thin arms wrapped around his waist, hot breath breathed into his ear, and a sharp body pressed against him. He dropped his arms and tried to get his breathing under control as Sherlock breathed on his neck.

"Sh-Sherlock, Jesus," John sputtered, "Do you want me to die of a heart attack?"

"No," Sherlock answered, his lips touching John's ear, "I want to have sex with you."

And that was it. That was all it took for a disoriented, sleepy John to wake up fully and stand up at attention. He bumped against Sherlock as he stood up straight from the shock. Sherlock's hands slid down his body and to his thighs and he blushed badly.

"Are you sure?" John whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock's voice vibrated through John's body.

John didn't know how to stand or move or what to say. So he stood still at attention, waiting for Sherlock's orders. His hands shook at his sides as Sherlock continued to breathe in his ear and slide his hands along John's thighs.

"Be calm, John," Sherlock whispered, "Calm down. Breathe."

"How can I calm down with you doing that?" John hissed at him.

Sherlock spun him around and pressed him against the counter, crowding into his space.

"No need to get rude, John," Sherlock said in a low voice.

John's heart sputtered at the dangerous tone and he blushed as other parts of his body responded to the tone of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John's. John could hardly breathe as Sherlock's lips wetted his. Sherlock pulled away and growled.

"Breathe, idiot," he hissed.

John gasped in air as Sherlock leaned over him, pressing him further against the counter. It suddenly occurred to him that they were going to have sex. Right then. On the counter. He blushed and gasped in a few more breaths, trying to calm his stallion of a heart. Sherlock pressed him further back and John figured out he was trying to lay him on the counter. He pressed his palms against the top of the counter and lifted himself up and laid himself as easily as he could (it was a counter for god's sake!).

"Good," Sherlock murmured as John situated himself on the counter.

John squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing, shifting to where his ass was available for Sherlock. He tried not to think about it as Sherlock's spidery hands pulled his pajamas down around his ankles. He heard a bit of a laugh and his face turned as red as his pants. He peeked a look at Sherlock who was looking at John's pants with delight.

John squeezed his eyes back closed as Sherlock started tugging on them as well. He tried to find something to hold on to as he heard the tell-tale click noise of the opening of a bottle of lube. He focused on his breathing and keeping himself relaxed as Sherlock pressed his fingers inside of him. He squirmed slightly and opened his eyes halfway to look down at Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Is this ok?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes, fine," John managed to whisper.

Sherlock's fingers pressed around inside him and he closed his eyes again. Finally, when John was about to open his eyes and tell Sherlock he was ready, Sherlock pressed himself inside John. John's body seized up at the intruder and Sherlock froze.

"Say something next time!" John snapped, trying to force himself to relax.

"Don't snap at me!" Sherlock said, "I will gag you if you don't quit being rude."

John shivered and snapped his mouth shut.

"Your cock twitched," Sherlock commented.

John blushed.

"Shut it," he hissed in embarrassment.

Then he was gasping as Sherlock shoved himself forcefully into John and leaned over him.

"You're just asking for the gag," Sherlock whispered in his ear, "I said quit being rude or you get the gag. You continued to be rude. The conclusion is that you want it."

Sherlock thrust his hips and grabbed John's to press himself impossibly deep inside John. John gasped from pain and pleasure and inability to breathe properly. John laid there gasping and scratching at Sherlock's back as his body relaxed around Sherlock.

"You're adjusted," Sherlock commented again, "May I move?"

"Yes, yes, yes," John moaned in a breathy voice.

John couldn't help but gasp, moan and screech as Sherlock thrust in and out of him. He couldn't see straight and his mouth hung open the most unattractive way. Sherlock moved as though he knew what he was doing and had been doing it forever. All John felt was a mix of pain and pleasure that had sweat pouring off of him and his body tensing as his end neared. He screamed into Sherlock's ear and scratched off the detective's skin as he shot white hot liquid all over himself and the other man.

* * *

John's eyes flew open and he sat straight up as the cold wetness touched him. He looked down to see Sherlock bent over him, washing him off. He blinked rapidly and rubbed at his eyes.

"H-h-how long have I been out?" he demanded.

Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"Not very long," Sherlock answered, returning to wiping the come off John's legs, "A minute maybe?"

John blushed and looked for his clothes. They were on the ground by Sherlock's feet.

"Can I, er, have my clothes now?" John questioned.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered, picking them up and handing them over, "I wouldn't make you walk about the flat naked. Though it is quite an option."

John couldn't help the deep crimson his face became as Sherlock turned away. John started pulling on his clothes, but stopped when he noticed the angry red lines on Sherlock's back. He hastily pulled his trousers up and came forward, tentatively touching one of the lesser scratches. Sherlock jumped and looked at him over his shoulder.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, "You're bleeding! Holy shit!"

"It's ok," Sherlock assured him, "I actually quite like them."

John looked up at him in confusion. Sherlock smirked at him

"Just means I did a good job," Sherlock said smugly.

John rolled his eyes and turned the detective to face him.

"Prat," he muttered as he leaned up to catch Sherlock's quick lips.

* * *

**Little note: OH MY GOODNESS! I HAVE GOT TO PEE! Ahem. That's the end, my friends. I held in my pee so I could finish this for ya'll. Hope you all like it! Love you all!**


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